Detective Lestrade arrived in record time with reinforcements, and the dark theater was soon filled with light, uniformed officers, and dozens of crime scene techs. Which, at the moment, were the most welcome sight I'd ever seen. It was all I'd been able to do to keep from breaking down in tears as the first officers on the scene had taken the gun from my hands and slapped a pair of handcuffs on Rossi. I'd been in the midst of giving a semi-coherent statement to another one when two more uniformed officers had come from backstage, Irene and Wiggins in tow. Then I did break down, blubbering like a baby as Irene and I wrapped each other in a hug that might have lasted longer than most people's entire friendships. She told me they'd been hiding backstage in a dressing room, and someone had shut the door and propped a chair against it. I guessed that had been Rossi's way of "taking care" of them.
While Irene told me her side of the story and I told her mine, Wiggins made himself scarce, taking advantage of the situating to no doubt get his blog written before any other news outlets carried the story. I cringed to think what he'd print about Sherlock Holmes, but at least he had his exclusive story and hadn't dug any deeper into our story.
"Marty?"
I looked up to find Watson jogging up the theater aisle toward me. The look of concern on his face melted me faster than any sunshine ever could.
As soon as he reached us, he pulled me into a hug to rival Irene's, crushing me to his chest. Which was warm, solid, and felt so safe I never wanted to let go.
"Are you okay?" he finally asked when we pulled apart. "You're ice cold, Marty." He took my hand in his.
I was fairly sure that if I tried to speak, I'd break down in tears. Again. Instead, I nodded and covered our clasped hands with my free one. "Hairspray," I managed.
"You don't need it," he said. "You look fine, considering what you must have been through."
"No," I said, my voice shaking. "I hairsprayed him."
"You hairsprayed a killer holding a gun on you?"
I tried to smile, but I couldn't manage it. "It's all I had."
Watson grinned at me. "You never cease to amaze me."
I wasn't entirely sure he meant that in a good way, but at the moment I wasn't into overanalyzing anything. All I wanted to focus on was the way his hands were so warm and tender over mine. The way his eyes were crinkling at the corners slightly as he smiled down at me. The way his soft lips were parting just so as they moved toward mine.
I blinked.
His lips were moving toward mine. Slowly, leisurely, almost as if he couldn't even control the pull between us. I knew how he felt as my body started automatically moving forward to meet his until I felt his lips lock over mine. Then he was kissing me. And oh boy, what a kiss. I felt heat pool in my belly then start to head south.
"Ahem." I heard Irene clear her throat. Was she still there? "Uh, maybe I should give you guys a little privacy…" She trailed off.
But the moment was over, and Watson had pulled away. "Uh, no, it's…fine. I need to go chat with Lestrade anyway. It sounds like I'll be transporting someone back to my morgue after all." He paused and must have seen the confused look I felt forming on my face. "Jane Doe."
I nodded, hoping we'd soon have a real name to go with the face.
"Why don't you go on home," Watson continued. He turned to Irene. "You can take her?"
Irene nodded. "Come on, Mar. Let's go fill Sherlock in on everything." She winked at me.
If filling in meant a long bubble bath and my nice warm, safe bed, I was all for it.
* * *
"You know, he's really a pretty good reporter," Irene said the next day.
The Victorian was quiet around us, with only the sound of Toby's soft panting as he slept at my side. An empty pizza box sat on the coffee table with paper plates and crumpled napkins piled on top. We were working our leisurely way through a bottle of wine while we waited for a very important phone call to come in. Irene had her laptop set up to accept the call via some program I suspected she'd coded herself. While we waited, she scrolled through Wiggins' Irregulars article.
I grinned. "You're just saying nice things about Wiggins because he mentioned Sherlock Holmes about thirty times."
"Hey, this story has gotten even more hits than the last one," she said. "It's free advertising. I bet we'll get tons of new business from this."
I wasn't so sure that was a good thing. I hadn't recovered yet from the old business. I had a feeling it was going to take some time before I didn't see that gun pointed at me whenever I closed my eyes. Absently, I stroked Toby's soft ears. He snuggled up against me with a contented sigh.
"I wonder who his sources are," Irene mused. "He tied up a lot of loose ends. Did you get to the part where he says Dominic Gordon has disappeared? He's probably wearing cement shoes fitted just for him by Vincent."
I shuddered. "He might just be in hiding from his brother. I know I would be."
"Yeah, you've got a point. If any more bodies go missing, we'll know for sure." She sipped her wine while she scanned the article. "The Jane Doe's name was Amy Balentine. She's from Bakersfield."
I shook my head, my heart going out to her family. While it sounded like she hadn't lived a strictly straight and narrow life, she hadn't deserved the end she'd gotten.
"And Bryan Steele's Internal Affairs investigation has expanded to look into his connections to Vincent Gordon," Irene added, finishing the article.
"That's a good thing. That man has no business being a cop."
"Agreed." She glanced up. "Did you ever find out what happened to Tara?"
I nodded. "She called me last night after the story broke. She claimed she lost her phone yesterday, and she thinks that Rossi stole it from her dressing room to send me that text. He must have deleted it off her phone, but I'm sure the police will be able to check her records with her cell provider."
"She can't be too happy to be out of work just when she was elevated to prima donna."
"Actually, I don't think she'll be out of work for too long. She's front and center in this story, and it sounds like she's loving the limelight. She said she's fielding offers to appear on a few daytime talk shows. Who knows, maybe she'll ditch opera for Hollywood."
"She can be a diva anywhere," Irene said, smiling.
I leaned forward, looking at Irene's screen and noticing a photo beside Wiggins' article, of an angular-looking man in a ridiculous looking deerstalker cap. "Who on earth is that?"
"That, my dear Hudson, is Sherlock Holmes."
I shot her a look. "You've got be joking."
Irene shrugged. "What? You don't like it?"
"That hat's a bit much."
Irene shrugged. "I like to think Sherlock has his own sense of style. Very retro rural England chic, no?"
I shook my head. "No." I paused. "Where did you even get this?"
"I pieced it together in Photoshop."
I opened my mouth to ask more, but didn't get the chance, as the doorbell rang.
Irene set her glass down. "Are you expecting someone?"
I shook my head. I went to answer it with Irene and Toby at my heels.
Barbara Lowery Bristol stood on the porch. "I'm sorry. I should have called." She looked away, clearly ill at ease. "I wasn't sure you'd want to see me after…"
"I understand you were upset," I said. "Please come in." I stepped aside.
"I won't take up much of your time." Her fingers worried the clasp of her handbag. "I really just came to apologize for being so unfair to both of you. I hired Mr. Holmes to do a job, and then I behaved miserably when you tried to do it."
"This wasn't an easy situation for you," I said gently.
"No." She started to speak, hesitated, and fell silent for a moment. "Losing Rebecca has just been so hard. I—" She paused, looking from Irene to me. "Well, I just feel so guilty. You were right. I did try to nudge Rebecca out of our parents' inheritance. She caused them nothing but grief when they were alive, and I was the one who stayed behind to pick up the pieces and take care of them in their later years." Tears formed behind Barbara's eyes. "But she was my sister. I should have loved her despite her faults. Now I have to deal with the fact we'll never have the chance to reconcile." Her voice broke.
Reflexively, I reached out to touch her hand. There was nothing either of us could say to lessen her pain.
After some time, she regained her composure. "I've said what I came to say. Now I have to attend Rebecca's funeral." Her smile was small and weak. "At Haley's Funeral Home. Oh. Here. I've cut another check for you." She handed it to me. "I hope you'll accept my apology." She offered her hand, and we shook it in turn.
We watched her return to her car and drive away.
"We should send some flowers to her back in Iowa," Irene said.
I glanced at her, surprised. "You're getting sentimental."
"And then we should get you a new roof," she said. "Can you feel that draft?"
I rolled my eyes. Although she had a point. With Barbara's check in hand, anything felt possible. Maybe even new electrical too. I knew it wouldn't cover everything the old place needed, but you had to start somewhere.
The sound of an old-fashioned phone ringing came from Irene's open laptop.
"That's him!" she shouted, diving for it.
I shut the front door and joined her, taking a spot next to her on the sofa as she put on a headphone set, adjusting the microphone to her mouth.
"Ready?" she asked.
I nodded, my heart in my throat.
Irene hit a button on the computer to answer the call and spoke into the microphone. Only the voice that came out was two octaves deeper and distinctly male. And if I listened carefully, even modulated with a hint of a British accent.
"Sherlock Holmes speaking," Irene's alter ego said.
"This is Detective Lestrade of the SFPD," came the reply from the other end. "Mr. Holmes, you're a hard man to get ahold of."
"My apologies, Detective. As you know, I do travel quite extensively."
"So I've heard."
I held my breath, almost not believing our ruse was working.
Irene and I had assumed that our "end of the day" timeline to have Mr. Holmes contact Lestrade would have vanished when we'd hand delivered a murderer to the detective. Not so much. He'd given us a small stay of execution to have Holmes contact him the following day instead. A day that Irene had spent the better part of loading her computer with this software, practicing her "Sherlock" voice, and trying to come up with answers to whatever hard questions Lestrade might throw her way. She was putting it to the test now, and I was mentally crossing all ten fingers and ten toes that we wouldn't need Barbara Lowery Bristol's check for bail money if she didn't succeed in pulling the wool over Lestrade's eyes.
"What can I do for you this evening, Detective?" Irene/Sherlock asked.
"I'd like to speak with you about two of your investigators, Irene Adler and Martha Hudson."
I bit my lip. What could Lestrade possibly have to say about us?
"Yes?" Irene prompted.
"Uh, before I go on, I'd like to let you know I also have the medical examiner, Dr. John Watson, on the line."
I froze. Irene shot me a questioning look. I shrugged and shook my head. This wasn't in the plan.
"Uh, yes, I'm familiar with Dr. Watson's work," Irene answered slowly.
"Nice to finally talk to you, Mr. Holmes," came Watson's voice from the laptop.
Oh boy. If this went sideways, we were all in now.
"Likewise, Dr. Watson," Irene answered.
"As I said, I have a few questions for you about Ms. Adler and Ms. Hudson," Lestrade went on.
"They are two of my best investigators. Outstanding individuals. Highly intelligent, hard working, and not bad to look at either," Holmes told them.
I rolled my eyes at Irene and thought I heard Watson chuckle in the background.
What? she mouthed.
"Uh, yes," Lestrade continued. "Anyway, as I was saying, I have a few questions. Specifically about their credentials."
Uh-oh. There it was. He knew we were hacks.
"Go on," Irene prompted.
"I don't seem to see a private investigator's license on file for either of your employees."
I closed my eyes and thought a dirty word.
But Irene wasn't fazed. "Of course not. They're still in training."
I heard rustling on the other end, like Lestrade was mumbling something privately to Watson. "In training?" he asked finally. "You mean, taking classes?"
"I mean, they're working as apprentices under me to accumulate their necessary hours to apply for the license in California. I believe it's six thousand hours, correct?"
"Oh, uh, er. I'm not sure…" Lestrade paused, whispering to Watson again.
I held my breath.
"Uh, yes, I believe that is the requirement."
"Well, that takes some time, Detective."
"But, you see, the problem is that I actually can't seem to find a license on file for you either, Mr. Holmes."
I shot Irene a helpless look. Last year when we'd first made up our phony baloney employer, Irene had forged a license for him, which she'd then sent to Watson to prove our credential. Of course, if anyone actually went digging into the real records at the Bureau of Security and Investigative Services, it wouldn't exist. And apparently Lestrade had dug.
"No, of course not," Irene said, sounding completely unruffled by the question. "I'm not licensed in California."
I blinked at her. She was just admitting it like that?
I heard more rustling. "Uh, Dr. Watson here," came Watson's voice. "I distinctly remember you sending me a license issued by the state of California when you were looking into the death of Miss Hudson's aunt."
"Yes, I did," Irene agreed. "But that's expired. So, at current, you would find no record of an active license for me in California."
"Then you can't practice in California," Lestrade jumped in. "And neither can your apprentices."
I hated how satisfied he sounded about that.
This was not going well. My gaze pinged to Irene again.
"Actually, I do believe I can," she went on, cool as a cucumber. "You see, I'm licensed in Georgia."
"Georgia?!" Lestrade said.
Georgia? I mouthed to her.
She winked at me.
"That's correct," she answered us both at the same time. "And, I believe the Bureau has a reciprocity agreement with Georgia, which allows me to conduct business in California."
"Well…I…I'm not sure about…" I heard Lestrade try to cover the mouthpiece of his phone and address Watson. "Is that true?" he mumbled. "Can they do that?"
I didn't hear Watson's reply, but it must have been affirmative, as Lestrade came back on the line a much surlier man. "Don't think I won't be checking Georgia's records!" he warned.
"Please do," Sherlock said smoothly. "Now, if there's nothing else, I do have a rather busy schedule today."
"I'm sure you do," Lestrade said, laying on the sarcasm.
"Oh, but before I go, my associate Miss Hudson wanted me to relay a message to Dr. Watson."
I did? I narrowed my eyes at her and shook my head in the negative.
"She did?" Watson's voice asked. If I didn't know better, he sounded hopeful.
"Yes," Sherlock went on, completely ignoring my ever-increasing head shaking. "In fact, she said she's quite sorry she had to run out on your—"
I gave Irene a look that could kill.
"—business dinner the other night and would like to make it up to you."
I would not! I mouthed vehemently.
Liar, Irene mouthed back.
Okay, so maybe it was a slight fib, but the last thing I needed was "Sherlock" to do any matchmaking for me. He'd already screwed up every other area of my life—he could leave my love life alone. Measly as it was.
"Well, you can tell Marty that I'd like that very much," Watson answered.
Irene shot me an I told you so look. "Splendid!" she answered him. "I'll have her text you the details."
"Uh, Mr. Holmes." Lestrade bustled back on the line, clearly out of patience with all of us. "When will you be in town so that we can meet face to face?"
"Oh, I'm so sorry, Detective, but I'm afraid my business will keep me here a bit longer."
"Exactly where is here?" Watson asked.
"Sorry. My connection isn't very good. I'm having a bit of a time hearing you. I'm afraid I must go now, but thank you for the very lively chat, Detective. I do so look forward to meeting with you when I'm in town again. Cheerio!"
Amid Lestrade's protests, Irene disconnected the call and removed her headset.
"You don't think the 'cheerio' was a bit over the top?" I asked.
Irene grinned, refilling our empty wineglasses. "Relax, Hudson. I got you a date, didn't I?"
I shook my head. "Yeah, I guess you missed my violent no to that."
"Watson sure seemed to like the idea."
He had kind of, hadn't he? "Fine. Thank you for the business dinner." I paused. "But what was all that about Sherlock being licensed in Georgia?"
She sipped her wine, looking supremely pleased with herself. "Turns out, Georgia has the most lenient licensing requirements of all the states with California reciprocity. So Shinwell went on a little vacation last week to Georgia to get licensed. You know, just in case we needed it."
I blinked at her. "You sent Shinwell to impersonate Sherlock Holmes to the Georgia state licensing board?"
She nodded. "He's a great actor, really."
She was missing the point. "We've now committed fraud in two states," I mumbled.
Irene handed my wineglass to me. "You worry too much, Marty. Besides, Sherlock has to keep doing business somehow."
"No! No, he does not have to keep doing business."
Irene shot me a look of mock hurt. "Marty. How much is that check worth that you're holding?"
I didn't realize I was still clutching Barbra Lowery Bristol's check. I glanced down at it. "Three thousand."
"And how much was your electrical estimate?"
"Ten thousand." I sighed.
A slow smile snaked across Irene's face. "So, want to check Sherlock's email and see if his newfound fame has caused any new cases to come in?"
I glanced up at my water-stained ceiling, my knob-and-tube wiring, my single-paned drafty windows, and my crumbling plaster walls. "Maybe just one more case."
Irene's smile stretched from ear to ear. "Sure, Marty. Just one more case…"
* * * * *
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* * * * *
Gemma Halliday is the New York Times, USA Today & #1 Kindle bestselling author of the High Heels Mysteries, the Hollywood Headlines Mysteries, the Jamie Bond Mysteries, the Tahoe Tessie Mysteries, the Marty Hudson Mysteries, and several other works. Gemma's books have received numerous awards, including a Golden Heart, two National Reader's Choice awards, a RONE award for best mystery, and three RITA nominations. She currently lives in the San Francisco Bay Area with her boyfriend, Jackson Stein, who writes vampire thrillers, and their four children, who are adorably distracting on a daily basis.
To learn more about Gemma, visit her online at http://www.gemmahalliday.com
Marty Hudson Mysteries:
Sherlock Holmes and the Case of the Brash Blonde
Sherlock Holmes and the Case of the Disappearing Diva
High Heels Mysteries:
Christmas in High Heels (short story)
Honeymoon in High Heels (novella)
Sweetheart in High Heels (short story)
Suspect in High Heels
Hollywood Headlines Mysteries:
Hollywood Holiday (short story)
Hollywood Revenge
Jamie Bond Mysteries:
Bond Bombshell (short story)
Bond Ambition (short story)
Fatal Bond
Tahoe Tessie Mysteries:
Baby It's Cold Outside (short story)
Anna Smith & Nick Dade Thrillers:
Dead to Rights
Young Adult Books:
Other Works:
A High Heels Haunting (novella)
Watching You (short story)
Confessions of a Bombshell Bandit (short story)
The Missing Laughing Leprechaun (short story in the Pushing Up Daisies collection)
* * * * *
From her first discovery of Nancy Drew, USA Today bestselling author Kelly Rey has had a lifelong love for mystery and tales of things that go bump in the night, especially those with a twist of humor. Through many years of working in the court reporting and closed captioning fields, writing has remained a constant. If she's not in front of a keyboard, she can be found reading, working out or avoiding housework. She's a member of Sisters in Crime and lives in the Northeast with her husband and a menagerie of very spoiled pets.
To learn more about Kelly, visit her online at: http://www.kellyreyauthor.com
Mary Hudson Mysteries:
Sherlock Holmes and the Case of the Brash Blonde
Sherlock Holmes and the Case of the Disappearing Diva
Jamie Winters Mysteries:
Mistletoe & Misdemeanors (holiday short story)
* * * * *
of the first Hollywood Headlines Mystery
HOLLYWOOD SCANDALS
by
GEMMA HALLIDAY
CHAPTER ONE
TEEN SENSATION ON MORAL VACATION
LAST NIGHT THE INFORMER CAUGHT EVERYONE'S FAVORITE TEEN ACTRESS, JENNIFER WOOD, AT THE HOLLYWOOD MARTINI ROOM WITH A MEMBER OF A BOY BAND IN ONE HAND AND MARY JANE IN THE OTHER—
"Sonofa—!"
"Tina!"
I swiveled in my chair to face my boss, Felix Dunn, standing in the doorway to his office, hands on hips.
"What?"
"Swear Pig."
I pursed my lips. "That doesn't count. I didn't finish the swear."
"It's the thought that counts."
"It was computer related. Everyone knows computer-related swearing doesn't count."
He narrowed his eyes. Clearly my argument wasn't cutting it.
"It's your own fault, you know," I protested, changing tactics. I'd been typing up a juicy tidbit about the It teen actress, who'd been caught with a joint in her hand at last night's after-party, when my backspace button stuck, taking out one very cleverly worded line, even if I did say so myself. "I mean, how many centuries old are these things anyway?" I went on. "Would it kill you to buy some new hardware once in a while?"
He shook his head. "Swear Pig, Bender," he repeated, then disappeared back into his office.
I mumbled a real swear word under my breath.
"I heard that!"
I stuck my tongue out at his door and dropped two quarters into the purple piggy bank on my desk. Somehow our newly appointed editor in chief was under the impression that yours truly swore too much. I have no clue where he got that impression. But he'd set up the Swear Pig as a way to break my bad habit. Personally, I was fine with my bad habit. It's not like I was shooting heroin or anything.
Which brought me back to my story.
I swiveled around, pushing my glasses back up onto my nose and put my fingers to keyboard, recreating my perfect line.
IT MAY BE ONE JOINT TODAY FOR OUR FAVORITE FAIR-HAIRED TEENY-BOPPER, BUT WITH THE WAY HER LIFE IS SPIRALING OUT OF CONTROL, CAN COCAINE, METH, OR EVEN HEROIN BE FAR BEHIND? HOW MANY BLONDES DOES IT TAKE TO SPELL "REHAB?"
I sat back in my chair, surveying my work. Okay, so it was a little mean. And the truth was Wood claimed someone had thrust the "stinky cigarette" into her hand just before the paparazzi flashbulbs went off, after which she'd promptly threw it out. But, seriously, she played the perky "Pippi Mississippi" in a tween cable show. This was tabloid gold.
I hit "send" letting my daily gossip column zip through the L.A. Informer's network to Felix's inbox, then gave my knuckles a satisfying crack.
I glanced at the clock. Quitting time. And somewhere there was a big beefy burrito dinner with my name on it. I grabbed my Strawberry Shortcake lunchbox that doubled as my purse and made for the exit.
Unfortunately, not before Eagle Eyes Dunn could catch me.
"Bender?"
I thought a dirty word and turned around to find him leaning against his office doorframe. "Did you want something, chief?"
"You finish up that Wood piece yet?" he asked.
"Just emailed it to you." I loved it when I was one step ahead of the boss.
"What about Pines?"
"Pines?"
Edward Pines was the director who'd recently been arrested when police found a stack of pornography under the seat of his car during a routine traffic stop. Not that naked bodies were a novelty in Hollywood, but these particular magazines had included photos of thirteen-year-old boys in the buff. I don't care how much his last action pic grossed, that guy was total Hollywood roadkill now.
"What about him?" I asked.
"Being arraigned today. It's your story, right?"
Damned straight. My headline the morning after Pine's arrest had read: PINES PINES AFTER PINT-SIZED PRE-TEENS. What can I say? I have a thing for alliteration.
But as much as I was relishing the story, I wasn't thrilled with the timing.
"He's being arraigned now?" My stomach growled. "It's dinner time."
"The news waits for no one, love. Cam's meeting you at the courthouse," he said, ducking back into his office.
So much for my burrito. I swore under my breath.
"Bender…"
"I know, I know." I reached into Strawberry Shortcake, pulled out another quarter, and dropped it into the ceramic pig on my way out.
At this rate, I'd be broke by Christmas.
* * *
The Beverly Hills courthouse was located on Burton, just a block south of Santa Monica. An unimpressive building, it had a sixties glass-and-concrete esthetic going on that made me think of a Doris Day movie. Totally outdated, totally utilitarian, totally at odds with the rows of Jags and Beemers in the parking lot.
I slipped my Honda Rebel into a space near the entrance. Yep, that's right, I ride a motorcycle. A bitchin' hot pink motorcycle. With yellow flames. I'll admit, it was no Harley, but for a gal my size, 5'3" on a good day, it fit just right. And with L.A. gas prices shooting through the roof, it was the only way I could afford my rent and my regular Swear Pig deposits.
I pulled off my helmet, locked it to the handlebars with a metal chain, and shook out my hair. Luckily when your hair is as stick straight as mine helmet head isn't much of a problem. I gave it a good fluff and felt the shag cut fall back into place. Currently it was auburn with deep purple highlights. Though, I've been through so many shades in my lifetime, I'm not even really sure what my natural color is anymore.
I grabbed Strawberry Shortcake and made my way inside, the cool air-conditioning a sharp contrast to the heat outside. Even in fall, the temp in So. Cal never goes much below 70, and this week we seemed to be hitting Indian summer in spades. After sending my purse through the conveyor belt and stepping through a pair of metal detectors, I made my way up to the second floor where Pines was scheduled to be arraigned.
A towering blonde in jeans and sneakers, holding a big, black Nikon, leaned against the drinking fountain outside the room.
"Hey, Tina," she said, raising a hand in greeting.
"I see Felix gave you late shift too, huh?" I said, gesturing to her camera.
She nodded. "Caught me in the middle of the dinner rush at Mr. Chow. And Britney had reservations today, too."
Cameron Dakota was the Informer's only full-time photographer. Most of the time Felix found it cheaper to pay freelancers by the picture, but Cameron had a knack for not only capturing celebs with their pants down (literally, if she was lucky) but also providing clear, quality shots that kept readers coming back time and time again to the Informer's pages. And, oddly enough, she actually seemed to enjoy being stuck on Brit watch. Personally, if I had to follow Hollywood halfwits to Starbucks every day, I'd shoot myself.
Lucky for me, I only had to cover them in court.
"Pines in there yet?" I asked, gesturing to the large, oak doors.
Cam shook her head, long blond hair whipping at her cheeks. "He's up next. Right now he's in the room next door with his lawyers. No cameras allowed in the courtroom so I'm waiting for a walk-of-shame shot." She gave me a wink.
"Go get 'em, tiger."
I pushed through the doors and slipped into the back of the courtroom.
Contrary to the world of L.A. Law, there was nothing glamorous, sexy, or exciting about sitting in L.A. County Court. The rooms were squat, square boxes filled with metal-framed tables, hard wooden chairs, and depressingly beige walls. Think DMV décor. Only worse. Since this was only an arraignment, no jury was present, just a bunch of people sitting in the gallery, family members who'd likely be putting up bail for the various guys in orange jumpsuits being paraded through the room. Currently up was a guy with earrings the size of nickels stuck in his ears, apparently pleading no contest to a drug possession charge.
Yawn.
I shifted in my seat, pulling my digital recorder from my back pocket as they let Mr. Meth out the side, telling a skinny brunette with tattoos that she could post his $50,000 bail downstairs.
But I sat up straighter as the side door opened and the next defendant shuffled in.
Edward Pines was in his fifties, though he looked about seventy-five today. Apparently jail did not agree with the man. Dark circles ringed his eyes, his jowly features softer and flabbier than the last photo Cam had snapped for our front page. He walked with his head down, as if already playing contrite despite the absence of jurors. Beside him stood his attorney—tall, pressed suit, pasty complexion. I didn't recognize him, but that wasn't surprising. High-profile pedophiles didn't make legal careers.
"Mr. Pines, you've been charged with possession of child pornography," the judge boomed from his bench. "How do you plead?"
The pasty attorney took his cue. "The defendant pleads not guilty, Your Honor."
I raised an eyebrow. Pines had been caught red-handed by police. I wondered just how his attorney planned to tap dance out of that.
"Very well. Prosecution on bail?" The judge turned to the pencil-thin district attorney, who, with the exception of his slight height, could have been a carbon copy of the pasty defense attorney. Didn't any of these guys ever see the sun?
"Your Honor, the People request bail be set at ten million dollars."
"Sonofa—" I sucked in a breath and heard a round of gasps ripple through the courtroom at the exorbitant amount.
Pines might have been a public figure and a creep, but it wasn't like he'd killed anyone. Even murder charges rarely topped a million in bail. I leaned forward in my seat. This was about to get juicy, I could feel it.
"Your Honor, that's outrageous," the defense attorney argued. His cheeks actually showed some color now. "My client is an upstanding member of society, highly regarded by his peers. He has deep ties to the community, and, quite frankly, I feel the D.A.'s bail request is ludicrously out of proportion to the crime at hand."
The judge raised his bushy eyebrows. "You think child pornography isn't a big deal, counselor?"
"Of course it is, Your Honor," he quickly backpedaled. "But the D.A.'s request is…severe," he finished, this time choosing his words more carefully.
Severe. Good way of putting it. I made a mental note to use that word in my copy.
"Mr. Atwood?" the judged asked, addressing the D.A.
"Your Honor, the defendant has considerable means, dual citizenship in the U.S. and Canada. He is a flight risk. And," he said, shooting Pines a withering look, "considering the defendant is a director with access to all manner of photographic equipment, we feel it is our duty to protect the children of the community by requesting ten million in bail."
"That's insane, Your Honor," defense argued. "My client is being persecuted by the D.A. because of his fame."
"I've heard enough," the judge said, holding up his hands.
The entire courtroom, me included, went silent, holding our collective breath as the judge chewed the inside of his cheek, his gaze going from one attorney to the other. No doubt wondering just how this would play out in the press.
Finally he seemed to come to some conclusion.
"Mr. Pines, if you think celebrity is an excuse for immoral behavior, you'll be sorely disappointed in my courtroom. Bail is set at ten million dollars."
I let out a low whistle as the judge banged his gavel. The D.A. gave a triumphant lift of his chin, almost exactly proportionate to the slump in Pines' shoulders as the bailiff accompanied him out of the room.
I slipped my recorder back in my pocket. An interesting development indeed. Whether Pines actually had ten mil in change for bail or not, I had no idea. But a Hollywood director stuck in jail for days? This was almost as good as Paris Watch '08. What do you want to bet he'd be claiming mental anguish in under a week?
I mentally rubbed my hands together with glee as I slipped back out the door to find Cam waiting for me. After all, one pedophile director's mental anguish meant front-page coverage for yours truly.
God, I loved Hollywood.